Time cast a spell on you

by Amy Turn Sharp


It started on Sunday when I saw a photo of Lindsey Buckingham come across some social media wire and I thought that he looked really delicious for his age. He looked moody. I love moody. You know that he and Stevie Nicks met in high school right? I filed away his image on the pinterest board inside of my mind for future retrieval. 

Then on Tuesday I heard "Second Hand News" and my whole body reacted. I curled my shoulders around my heart and thought about all the times that the Rumours album has saved my life. I am partial to Dylan and other big boys but I cannot turn from this amazing collection of songs. I think that FM made the most divine album because as history alludes- they were all really screwed up and in a massive pool of pain. We make things that shine when we are in pain I think. We give birth to better sometimes.

 

Then on Friday I got this email from my friend Jenny:

"PS--Listened to Fleetwood Mac this morning...thought of you and how you could go to any party at OU, find Fleetwood, take over the stereo, and blast it throughout the house. And how once I was upstairs in the bathroom at a very boring party, and then I heard ‘Go your own way’ and I instantly knew Amy Turn had arrived and my night would be wonderful again! And I was right!  

You should blog about that...I like your music time stamping certain phases of yr life posts...or you know what I mean!"

I closed my laptop and smiled like a looney.

I did that.

I would always do that.

I would always do that.

Why don't I do that anymore?

 

And then today I ran into an old friend from college at the farmer's market. It was like some sort of slow motion bittersweet memory flashback. Hello. Hello. Look at all of the children. The beautiful children. We have five between us. This is the way we say hello now. Hello Hello. This person and I used to listen to Fleetwood Mac together and we never thought that we would grow up. He was always with me at the above mentioned parties. Later, as we walked home through perfect picture postcards streets, Finnian asked me about my friend.

Is he nice?

Yes.

Was he your friend when you were little?

Yes, sorta. Younger.  

Why don't you ever see him?

I don't know Finn. I don't know. 

 

But mama does know that she can sing "Gold Dust Woman" just like Stevie.

In the car.

Or in the bar.

And all the way through my life I count on songs to give me the courage to remember.

 

I am very small like the tiny boys that live with me now.

I am a tiny gypsy and my mother listens to "Rhiannon" on the small transistor radio in our bitty kitchen.

Light pours through the window by the sink and she is golden with long hair and pink lips.

I listen to the music and think about the way I feel like floating.

My mother shakes her narrow hips and I feel love.

There is nothing that can hurt me as this is the seventies.

That's actually when it started.

Not Sunday.